


Three Hundred and Sixty-Five

by Jupiter_Ash



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Apocalypse, Crossover, Episode: s03e12-e13 The Sound of Drums/Last of the Time Lords, Gen, Year That Never Was, crazy master is crazy, people die, that's what people do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossover with Doctor Who: The story of what Sherlock and John were doing during the Year That Never Was.</p><p>*New to AO3 but not a new story. Originally posted to my LJ April 2011*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Hundred and Sixty-Five

*-*-*

_“This country is sick. This country needs healing. This country needs medicine. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that what this country needs, right now, is a doctor…” – Harold Saxon_

*-*-*  
 **  
Election Day**

*-*-*

John stared at the ballot paper, his eyes swimming slightly with the onset of yet another tension headache, this one threatening to pound through the very front of his skull.

VOTE SAXON

He scanned down the list – Conservatives, Green, Labour, Liberal Democrats – all the usual suspects. His eyes lingered on the Saxon Party, the pen in his left hand twitching as he tapped aimlessly against the wooden ledge of the booth with his right.

VOTE SAXON

He hadn’t had a problem like this in any other election. Last time he had voted Labour, mainly because that Harriet Jones had impressed him with her straight talking and no nonsense attitude, exactly what had been needed after Downing Street had been reduced to rubble and the confirmation had come that most of the Cabinet members were in fact dead, including the Prime Minister.

She had been good, Harriet Jones, until the stress of two Christmases before had finally got to her and she had eventually resigned after a vote of no confidence. Considering everything her breakdown hadn’t been unexpected. It had been aliens of course. It was always aliens nowadays. Aliens crashing into Big Ben. Aliens hypnotising people across the world. Ghosts turning out to be killer Cybermen. Tin pots flying through the sky. Giant killing stars. Maybe Mr Saxon was right.

VOTE SAXON

Ah, Harold Saxon, the former Defence Minister, who had risen to prominence with the launch of Archangel, grown in popularity and respect before he had broken away to form his own party.

VOTE SAXON

Saxon was good, nice, he spoke a lot of sense, he was by far the best person for the job. He was clever and respectable, he was a man you could trust and rely on.

VOTE SAXON

He put a cross in the box. Well, he thought as he folded the paper and straightened his back as his headache eased, they were all as bad as each other. What was the worst that could happen?

*-*-*  
 _  
“Now then, citizens of the Earth; please attend carefully!” – The Master_

*-*-*

**Day 1**

*-*-*

Harold Saxon was insane.

John watched in growing horror as the large sphere-like Toclafane assassinated the American President.

Less than ten minutes later the whole world started to burn.

*-*-*

**Day 98**

*-*-*

It smelt like cabbage; soggy, over boiled cabbage, which was impressive considering he doubted something as fresh as cabbage had been within fifty feet of, well, of whatever it was.

It slid off his spoon with a heavy squelch and was absorbed back into the bowl of what was apparently breakfast. He would compare himself to Oliver if that was more of a joke and less like reality. As it stood this was no joke, and joking aside no one had any interest in breaking into song.

He ate the food because in all honesty he didn’t exactly have much of a choice. It was warm, filling and in all truth didn’t taste that bad. Then again they couldn’t afford for their doctors to get sick because who then would help out at the labour camps?

He swallowed each mouthful quickly not wanting to think too much about the labour camps. With only a small exception, they were what was left of mankind. One tenth of the population dead on the first day. World wide that was just shy of seven hundred million people. It was a mind numbing sum. But that had just been the first wave.

The second wave had come in the days that had followed. With anarchy ruling and people running scared humanity had turned on itself. No one knew the exact figures, but millions more had died across the world in the terror that had followed; some by the Toclafane, some by other humans, some by their own hands. To this day he wasn’t sure how he had managed to survive, but he had, and here he was, with the rest of the medical staff, holed away and ready to be shipped off to whatever he was needed.

“Watson!”

He looked up just in time to see Hudson bearing down on him. Hudson wasn’t strictly medical staff but he was a man who could organise and get things done. He was also a man who knew on what side his bread was buttered and had made himself useful to the Toclafane. In return he had the day to day running of the centre. Rumour had it he even got to speak to someone who spoke directly to the man now styling himself as the Master of the Universe. It probably wasn’t true. With a whole planet needing to be run there were plenty of people far more important than Leonard Hudson.

“Sir,” he said putting his spoon down.

“New orders, Watson. You’re to go to Nuclear Plant 2.”

He looked blank. He had never heard of Nuclear Plant 2.

“Bradwell On Sea, Watson. Essex. There’s been a sickness bug amongst the workers. Suspected gastric flu.”

He winced. With conditions as they were something like gastroenteritis could very easily lead to deaths and had done from the reports they sometimes got. Without proper food, water and rehydration therapy there was very little that could be done, which raised the question as to why he was being sent.

“There are some important people working there,” Hudson said. “People vital for the next phase. Your job is to keep them alive.”

He nodded but didn’t bother asking what would happen if he failed. Dying wasn’t so bad. They could only kill you once.

*-*-*

**Day 99**

*-*-*

“So much for that bloody phrase.”

It had taken him the best part of a day to get to Bradwell, a journey that had once not that long ago only been expected to have taken two hours at most. He had started with the medical convoy going north-east to Norwich before branching off and crossing the flat wilds of south Essex by himself. He had asked but there had been no one else available to go with him, so it had just been him. Him with just a shovel, a medical shock blanket and a hand gun for company.

Before all of this he had never held a real gun before, certainly not one that could wound or kill a person. It didn’t work on those Toclafane of course, but he doubted that any conventional weapon would. No, the gun was for protection from more biological predators.

London was a mess and the suburbs were not that much better. Packs of wild dogs were starting to roam the streets and there were even rumours of rabies coming back from those who had dared to venture out.

Then there were the humans.

While most people had been rounded up and put into various labour camps or assigned new roles or positions, there were those who had fallen through the cracks. There were always those who fell through the cracks, either by mistake or by design. There were those who had resisted and somehow lived to tell the tale. Of course their new found freedom was often quickly cut down by roaming Toclafane who liked to use them for sport.

Then there were the ones who were literally pushed out. Not every human was capable or able to do the necessary work, and those who were too old, too infirm, too sick, too stupid or were in any other way incapable of working and therefore justifying the clothes on their back and the food on their plates were often too tossed out with the dogs and forced to fend for themselves. Unsurprisingly many of them did not survive long either, but desperation made them unpredictable and it was not unheard of for them to attack vehicles or conveys in search of food or supplies.

The third group was the now famed resistance. No one knew who they were, but there were more and more stories coming back about a group of people who were actively searching for a way of bringing down the new regime and saving the world. He wasn’t sure if they weren’t just made up to give them all some hope, but wished them luck anyway, because if they were real then they were going to need all the hope, luck and prayers they could get.

“What phrase?”

He looked up to find one of the plant scientists looking at him with a slight frown. The guy was apparently a nuclear physicist, or at least that was what his badge declared him to be. That was no doubt a new title as the man barely looked old enough to have finished university let alone to hold such an important position. With so many dead there had been a lot of rapid promotions, but there was something about the sharp pale eyes under the untidy mop of dark curly hair that told him that whatever this guy should have been doing, it shouldn’t have included wearing a lab coat and carrying a clipboard in a nuclear power station.

“Oh,” he said trying to think back to what it was he had said. That’s right, he had just remembered that old phrase about the Essex coast.

“Something my mum used to say,” he said. “’Harwich for the continent, Frinton for the incontinent.’”

The man frowned at him, his eyes penetrative in a way that was mildly uncomfortable.

“You grew up near here. Colchester?”

“Chelmsford,” he said clearing his throat.

The man nodded as if that made sense and then he turned and walked away, his lab coat billowing out slightly behind him.

That was… that was different.

Actually in truth nothing about this trip was as he thought it would be.

About half the workforce were sick – some confined to beds, others determined to work through it. For a brief moment he had considered the possibility of radiation sickness – this was a nuclear power station after all – but despite the vomiting and diarrhoea there were no other symptoms, so gastric flu was far more likely.

His main task was to prevent dehydration, so set about boiling large quantities of water and mixing his own rehydration solutions, prompting a rather desperate, and not all that successful, search for foods rich in potassium.

For the most part people ignored him. That was alright, they had a nuclear power station to run and he had lives to save. People didn’t talk the way the used to any more anyway. What was the point?

They were all dead men.

*-*-*

**Day 100**

*-*-*

“Here.”

He looked up when a small bag was dropped onto the table where he was working. The tall, curly hair man looked back at him, and then with a nod the man turned and left.

The bag contained packets of dried fruit; raisons, prunes, apricots. While they weren’t ideal – he would have preferred bananas, but they were long gone – they were, however, rich in potassium.

*-*-*

**Day 101**

*-*-*

There was meat for dinner. Okay, so there wasn’t much of it and he was not about to question what type of meat it was – it was probably better not knowing – but still, meat. It was hot and didn’t taste too bad. He ate it all and was grateful.

The tall, curly haired man didn’t appear for dinner.

*-*-*

**Day 103**

*-*-*

He awoke to a hand pressed firmly over his mouth.

It hadn’t been a good few days. Despite his best efforts, in a small handful of the patients the symptoms had only gotten worse, to the point where he doubted they would survive. They were also struggling to find the cause of the sickness, but nothing was being helped by the lack of good food and the limitations of their medical supplies.

With nothing more he could have done that night, he had forced himself to bed to grab a few hours of much needed sleep.

He got less than five hours before the hand jerked him back to consciousness.

He gasped air in through his nose and flailed for a moment unsure as to what was happened until in the early morning gloom his eyes finally took in the sight of dark curly hair and a pair of sharp, pale eyes.

He forced himself to relax even as his heart thudded painfully hard in his chest. The other man raised a finger to his lips in a shushing motion and then slowly loosened his hand.

“We’re leaving,” the man said with a low voice and the next thing he knew he was being thrown his jeans and a beige jumper he had never seen before.

“What?” he said but found himself silenced by a stony look.

He dressed without a word, grateful for the warmth of the jumper in the cool of the early morning. The other man, whose name he still didn’t know, watched him impatiently, dressed himself in clothing that was a touch too large for him, although this wasn’t too surprising as he barely appeared to eat.

At first he had expected some news on his patients, but as the minutes ticked passed he realised that whatever this was about, this was not about that.

Seeing he was dressed, the man turned on his heels and walked out.

This was the moment, he realised, this was the choice. He could follow, or he could stay.

“Damnit,” he said low under his breath and followed.

The man wordlessly led him through parts of the power plant he had never been in. Despite the fact it was hardly a place that could afford to sleep they saw only one other worker, who turned away from them with a look that said she had seen nothing.

Before long they were outside and he blinked in the pale light of the early morning. In front of them was the jeep he had come in and it was hardly a surprise to find that it was to that that they were heading. What was more surprising though, was finding the keys tossed to him with the silent command to get in and drive.

He got in, put the keys in the ignition and rested his hands on the steering wheel.

“Okay,” he said quietly when the other man shut the passenger door beside him. “What’s going on?”

“Not now,” the man said, riffling under the chair to pull out a knapsack which he opened to reveal some more packets of dried fruit, bottles of water, a bottle of vitamin tablets, two apples, something in a black wallet and…

His eyes widened.

“That’s… that’s my gun.”

The man casually stopped his riffling his fingers curling around the handle of the gun almost as if he was surprised to see it there.

“Yes,” the man said mildly, “so it is.”

The words settled between them cool like the morning dew.

Pressing his lips together he turned back to looking through the windscreen and clenched the steering wheel tighter. Then with a sigh he relaxed and reaching down he turned the key.

They were stopped by the Toclafane within minutes of course, the large whirling ball of silver coloured metal glinting in the early sunlight.

“Identify yourself, little humans,” the almost childlike voice said.

“We’ve got a license,” his companion said in a voice that was far too calm considering the danger they were in, and just as calmly flicked open the black wallet. “Harrison Jones and John Watson, Peripatetic Medical Squad. We’re being sent for supplies.”

“Supplies,” the sphere laughed. “Supplies! Soon you won’t be needing supplies.” Then with a laugh the Toclafane flew off.

John breathed out, his heart thumping in his chest. He had no idea what was going on, but somehow he was still alive.

He started the jeep again and soon they were driving along the empty flat roads that characterised this part of Essex heading towards the village that gave the power station its name.

“Okay,” said the man whose name was most possibly not Harrison Jones, “you’ve got questions.”

“Yeah,” John said tapping his fingers absently against the steering wheel in a rhythm of four, “where are we going?”

“Harwich,” the man said.

Right.

“Why?” he asked.

The man’s lips twitched. “It’s like you said; Frinton for the incontinent.”

Oh, he thought and then, oh!

He swallowed nervously, something strange starting to bubble up in this stomach, something… interesting.

“You’re not a medical doctor,” he said, “and your name isn’t Harrison Jones.”

The other man smiled slightly.

“I’m not a nuclear physicist either but that’s hardly stopped me.”

The strange sensation bubbled up first into a smile and then washed over him as a laugh. He couldn’t believe this. This wasn’t real. These sorts of things didn’t happen to him.

“You’re part of the resistance.”

“You could say that,” the other man said.

“But now Harwich. You’re leaving the country?”

“Just drive,” the other man said.

He did.

They had the apples and some of the raisons for breakfast. It wasn’t much but it was wonderful, the apple in particular. He hadn’t realised just how much he had missed fresh fruit, the sound of the first crunch, the juices that ran down his chin.

They were again stopped by the Toclafane, this time as they looped around Colchester. This Toclafane was a little more suspicious and for a moment John thought it would see straight through the lie, but somehow it worked and they were allowed to continue.

“I thought we were dead for certain,” he said his heart still thumping painfully in his chest.

“No,” the other man said with almost a laugh. “We’re still alive. Still very much alive.”

Another ten minutes of driving and he found himself finally bold enough to give voice to the question that had been nagging at him since the reality of the situation had dawned on him.

“You knew that the only people permitted to travel were medical staff,” he finally said.

“Of course,” the other man said rather more casually than he would have expected.

There was a pause and then the other man rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t poison all those people if that’s what you’re asking,” he said.

“Are you often accused of poisoning people?”

There was a small shrug. “Now and then, yes, but I just tell them it’s the way I cook.”

He laughed partly out of relief and partly because there was nothing else he could do.

“You forged my medical pass.”

“And I hacked into the communications equipment of the power station while passing for a nuclear physicist.”

Whoever this man was, he was a genius.

“What did you do,” John asked genuinely curious, “you know, before all this?”

The man shot him a sideways glance and with a twitch of his lips replied, “I was a violinist.”

They both laughed but John didn’t ask again.

They did make it to Harwich though, or at least to within a few miles of Dovercourt before it really became too dangerous to go any further.

John stopped the jeep as he was instructed to and stared as in the distance they could hear the sound of heavy machinery.

“Rockets,” the other man said his tone blunt. “The plans stretch for miles across the south-east coast. You should see Dover.”

John was pretty certain that he didn’t want to see Dover.

“What now?” he asked as the man tossed him his medical pass back.

“Now we go our separate ways,” the man said.

Oh.

He swallowed. “What time’s your boat?”

The man didn’t answer. It was a stupid question anyway.

“Can… can I….”

He stopped, the question on his lips going unvoiced. It was another stupid question anyway. Of course he couldn’t go with him. That was just ridiculous, and yet a part of him wished that he could.

“At least tell me your name,” he said. “You know, just in case.”

The man shook his head. “There’s only one name you need to know,” the man said.

“Whose? What?”

“Martha Jones.”

Then the man was gone.

John sat there for what seemed like an age, watching as the sun continued to rise higher and higher in the sky.

It was only when he went to reverse that he realised the stranger had left his gun behind as well.

He went back to the power plant. He had no where else to go after all, and while the thought of going rogue and trying to find the resistance held some appeal to him, he had neither food nor supplies and doubted he would survive long enough to find them anyway.

No one bothered to ask him where he had been.

*-*-*

**Day 109**

*-*-*

With the sickness bug now having run its course, he was ordered back to London. The outcome hadn’t been too bad. The final records said there had been three deaths, although for two of them the gastric flu had only quickened what would have been the only outcome anyway.

The third recorded death was that of a young physicist called Sherwood Burns. There was no body, but no questions asked.

That was apparently how it worked.

*-*-*

**Day 152**

*-*-*

Martha Jones, he heard, was going to save the world.

He helped a mother give birth to a baby too small and too weak to survive for long and watched as they died within hours of each other.

Martha Jones was going to save the world? But what sort of a world would she be saving?

*-*-*

**Day 182**

*-*-*

He dutifully watched the Master’s broadcast. Had it really been half a year since that madman had been elected Prime Minister?

It seemed like a lifetime ago now.

It was with some manic glee that the Master announced that the resistance in Los Angeles had finally been crushed. Hollywood was apparently now a very expensive pile of burning rubble.

Behind him an old man in a wheelchair looked on with large, mournful eyes and the Toclafane hovered like over zealous body guards. There was little need for further verbal threats.

Martha Jones was mentioned. Some were hailing her a possible saviour. Foolish hope, they were told. The Master was now god, the Lord and ruler of all.

It was enough to make you sick.

*-*-*

**Day 199**

*-*-*

He woke up hungry. That was hardly a new occurrence.

He lay on his cot and stared up at the ceiling trying not to think about fresh apples or indeed any type of food.

He failed.

Nineteen hours later he was allowed back to bed, exhausted, and still hungry.

*-*-*

**Day 221**

*-*-*

He dreamed about the man he had met; the curly hair, the piercing eyes.

He hoped that whatever he was doing it was working.

*-*-*

**Day 242**

*-*-*

He watched as the islands of Japan burnt. It was another broadcast, a warning.

The Toclafane had been allowed free reign to ravage the islands, to not leave anyone alive. Martha Jones, it transpired, had been rumoured to have been somewhere in Japan, so now Japan burnt and the people screamed.

He turned away from the screen as the broadcast finished and returned to looking at the all too skinny girl in front of him. Eight years old, he estimated, and underweight. It was like being in a war zone, he realised, trying to help the poor, starving locals as the battle raged on around them

He tried not to think about the type of life this girl would grow up to lead, if she lived long enough to grow up that was.

*-*-*

**Day 245**

*-*-*

Natsumi hanged herself. He wasn’t surprised, watching her home land burn had been the final straw.

He found her body and wondered if he had become too hardened by the situation when the second thought that had crossed his mind had been that now they had to find a new doctor.

*-*-*

**Day 267**

*-*-*

In Croydon he had just enough medicine to possibly save four people. There were seven people who needed it.

In truth he was too tired to make a decision like that, too tired and too drained. He just wanted to sleep. Sleep and wake up to find that this was all a dream.

*-*-*

**Day 302**

*-*-*

They sent him to Dartford, to the slave quarters there. There had apparently been a riot, something about supplies and dozens of hungry people being kept in tight, cramped conditions. Something was always going to happen and eventually it did.

By the time he arrived there the riot was basically over. The Toclafane had dealt with that in their usual extreme way, killing people by vaporisation, and there were now thirty-six bodies of former dock workers who were unaccounted for.

There were also the bodies of seventeen more people who had died in the scuffle. He knew that because he helped to lay out the bodies and watched as they were then vaporised to just atoms. A further twenty-nine people had been injured, some more seriously than others, but he knew without looking at them too closely that not all of them would make it.

Not all of them would want to make it.

*-*-*

**Day 315**

*-*-*

Finished in Dartford they sent him on to Royal Tunbridge Wells.

For all he had heard about the place in the time before the Master the place was now a disaster zone. Like a lot of places it looked like a war zone, the buildings scorched, the former inhabitants mostly dead.

He ran his hands over his face and wondered when he had become hardened to everything he was seeing.

“Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

He turned to find another man watching him, tall, skinny, unshaven and with the bearing of one who was just as resigned as he was.

“Tom Milligan,” the man said. “Doctor.”

“John Watson,” he said. “Survivor.”

*-*-*  
 **  
Day 327**

*-*-*

He was supposed to be in Eastbourne. He was supposed to be tending to the sick and injured working on the Master’s ridiculous rockets. There had been a minor explosion at one of the refining factories. He had no idea what the death toll had been, no one told the truth any more any way and with so many billions dead already it was just a statistic anyway.

He was being sent there for the living anyway, for what good he could do, separating the merely injured from the nearly dead and trying to help those he could despite the chronic lack of anything decent like food.

He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been hungry.

He was supposed to be there but he wasn’t.

He blamed it on the lack of motorways and decent roads, on the Toclafane and the Master, on the gods that obviously did not exist.

The roads were horrible, car wreckages littering the lanes, pot holes springing up from the harsh winter, damage and more damage. Somehow he was not surprised when he heard a bang and the jeep swerved momentarily out of his control. For a brief few seconds he had thought he was about to die and then the jeep had stopped and his heart pounded in his throat.

He was still alive, but he was alone and there was no spare to his tire.

Getting out, he slowly walked around the vehicle just to check the damage, ignoring the way his legs felt like jelly.

Yup, the tire was blown and there was nothing he could do about it.

He looked around. By his estimation he was still miles away anywhere, he was alone, without transport and the sun was already low in the sky. He really had no choice but to take what he could and to seek shelter. Eastbourne would just to have to do without him for the moment.

It was a little depressing to realise that he didn’t have that much to take with him. What was left of his dried rations, half a bottle of water, a red shock blanket, the beige jumper he somehow still had, his ID and of course his gun. He checked the gun. He already knew it was still working since it was still compulsory for all those who travelled regularly to be able to use and service such a weapon. The winter had reduced the number of scavengers and wild animals but it had also made the survivors even more desperate.

He slipped the gun into the back of his jeans and started to walk.

*

The village sign said “Cross in Hand”. Unsurprisingly it was deserted.

He had been walking for about three quarters of an hour, the going slower than he might have expected due to fatigue and hunger. It probably would have been better going back northwards towards Five Ashes (now technically Two Ashes, as three of the trees that had once given the village its name were now burnt out stumps) but there had been next to nothing in the village and it would have been further still to Mayfield. Anyway walking southwards at least gave him the sense that he was making progress, even if it was frightfully slow.

He eyed the motorcycle shop with some interest, wondering if there was any way that he might be able to make one of the vehicles left in there work, but moved on when he heard the increasingly nearing sound of barking dogs.

He chose a farm house on the outskirts of the village. It didn’t take long to find a way in, most the windows were smashed after all.

Of course the place had been raided, but he was delighted to find half a packet of stale biscuits and a lone bottle of Robinson’s Fruit Shoot. He consumed both with great relish, the drink tasting unbelievably sweet in his mouth despite the lack of artificial sugars the bottle claimed it had.

He found himself the most secure room in the property and carefully made himself a bed, raiding what he could before slipping on the jumper and wrapping himself up first with his shock blanket. He made sure that he faced the door and that his gun was at hand before allowing sleep to overtake him not that long after the sun had totally set.

*-*-*

**Day 328**

*-*-*

He awoke to loud barking.

The sound travelled somewhat chronically in the still night air.

He gripped his gun and spent the next hour staring into the darkness trying to ignore it

*

He met a Toclafane fifteen minutes into his walk the next morning, twenty minutes after he had resigned himself to not being able to get any of the vehicles nearby working and an hour and twelve minutes after a breakfast of a small tin of rice pudding and a handful of stale cornflakes.

He quickly explained what had happened and why he was alone. For a brief moment he was sure he was about to die, but then the Toclafane merely laughed and then flew away again.

Heart in mouth but having had both food and sleep found himself feeling more alive than he had been in some time, he continued on his way.

He decided to continue to follow the roads he had been advised to drive down and estimated that he had at least five hours of walking ahead of him although he suspected it could well be closer to six, if not seven. On the bright side though, the weather was at least alright.

*

He heard it before he saw it.

Hiding behind a burnt out car, he crouched down and waited for whatever it was that was about to come. It was only natural that there would be scavengers around here, it was technically the countryside and therefore one of the easiest places to survive in. The only real surprise was that he hadn’t seen anyone before now.

He heard the shouts, an almost animalistic sound that came from somewhere to his left. Shifting round to cover that area, he tightened his grip on his gun and waited, his eyes peeled for what was to come.

The figure that eventually broke through the line of trees did so in a kind of stumble, head twisted away as if looking behind. His clothes looked as if they had seen far better days, ripped and in at least one part stained with what appeared to be blood, and yet despite his appearances he didn’t appear to be totally wild.

He tightened his grasp on his gun, his heart leaping when the head whipped around in his direction, and then he was looking into a familiar face. The hair was short and as such far from curly, the cheekbones were gaunter, the body thinner and there was a long thin scar running down from just below his left eye right across his cheek and down his neck, but the eyes were unmistakeable.

He rose slightly with a gasp.

“You!” he said and then the man was diving behind the closest vehicle, panting with his previous exertions.

Within seconds his pursuer appeared, hairy and obviously hungry, searching with wild, angry eyes. There was no doubt in John’s mind that this was a scavenger and one capable of killing them as well.

The bullet hit the scavenger’s shoulder before John even realised he had pulled the trigger. His hand that had been shaking before was now steady and controlled, even as the scavenger bellowed with pain and stumbled away, angry and confused.

He stared at his hand and the gun in surprise, almost as if it hadn’t been him who had pulled the trigger. Some doctor he was.

“Good shot,” the not quite stranger said his voice surprisingly hoarse.

“Bloody hell,” he said, and then he swore profoundly. Then just because he could he swore again. “I thought you were dead,” he finally managed after the hysteria had given away to laughter and then finally to the ability to compose a rational verbal response. “I never thought….”

There was no need to complete that sentence. It had been two hundred and twenty five days since they had parted company just outside Dovercourt. Two hundred and twenty five days since he had regretted not at least asking if he could go with him.

“John Watson,” the other man said with the look of someone both surprised and intrigued by the reunion. Then he raised an eyebrow. “Eastbourne,” he said almost cryptically. “The refinery fire? Ah yes, a blown tyre, the front passenger side one I’d say by your clothing.”

John stared at him. Then surprising them both, he pulled the other man into an embrace.

*

They ended up abandoning the road and cutting across country in a more literal way, heading deeper and deeper into the fields and copses. That is to say that the other man did that, John simply followed.

Hailsham, the town they were nearest to, was apparently a complete no go area, at least according to his new companion. It was full of Toclafane, collaborating overseers and far too many drones.

“Drones?” he asked.

“Workers,” the other man said. “All desperate and starving and without hope.”

“You’ve just come from Hailsham, haven’t you?” he said.

“Needed some supplies,” the other man said.

“Food?” he said with a frown.

“Technology.”

The conversation ended there. He didn’t bother asking where they were going, anywhere was better than where he had been going.

*

They spent the night in an empty farm house far away from anywhere. They ate what they found, a meal that despite its random nature was the best he had had in a long time.

His still nameless colleague took the first watch and so John fell asleep to the cry of wild animals and the sight of his friend staring blankly into the growing gloom.

*-*-*  
 **  
Day 329**

*-*-*

Afternoon on the next day they reached what appeared to be a burnt out old manor house.

Reaching the front of it they stood for a moment in a sense of mourning, staring up a the blackened walls, the smashed in windows, the caved in roof that had helped collapse the top two floors and the rubble that was all that was left of what had no doubt been a lovely historic home.

He didn’t bother asking what happened. The Toclafane had happened, there was no doubt about that. If he did have a question it was more a question of why than how or what.

“The resistance,” his companion said, a strange look in his pale eyes. “For a while this was one of their headquarters, until they were betrayed.”

He wondered how many of the resistance had made it out alive but then his companion was turning away and heading towards what appeared to be a bush. Closer to it he could make out something behind the leaves, a wall or door of some kind.

He watched as his companion stripped back the foliage and then picked the lock on the door to reveal a flight of steep steps going downwards.

He followed down without question only partly surprised when with a flick of a switch the room below was bathed in bluish light. He was more surprised to find himself in what could only describe as a laboratory, or what was left of a laboratory. The place had been clearly raided, broken glass from test tubes and beakers cracking under their feet, but it was still an impressive place none the less. The lights alone appeared to be running from a separate generator. He could hear the whirling sound although he had no idea where it was located.

Hic companion said nothing, just started rooting around, obviously knowing what he was looking for and from the speed in which he located things also knew where they would be.

“Do you need any help?”

His companion shook his head, wires already held between his teeth, a critical eye looking at the computer screen he had found.

He left him to it. He had a feeling they would be there for some time – days if not longer – and they needed supplies.

*

He returned about two hours later with a random selection of food he had managed to find at a farm nearby. None of it was fresh of course, but it was edible.

His companion had hardly moved although the technology around him had grown somewhat. He offered food but it was declined. In the end he found a safe place to sit and watch, and wrapping his shock blanket around him he did just that.

*-*-*

**Day 330**

*-*-*

He awoke to an exulted cry and to the sight of his companion with an expression of achievement on his far too thin face. The screen beside him was flickering into life and then promptly asked for a user name and password.

The user name turned out to be Locksley. The password he had no chance of catching.

A few clicks later and a video was pulled up. The figure of a man, tired and grey looking greeted them, his voice grave when he started speaking.

“Locksley,” he said, “the fact you are watching this means I was unable to meet you after South Africa. I trust your mission was successful and you managed to get the data to Miss Jones. I have never doubted your abilities.

“There is every possibility that I am now dead. This, I trust, will not impact on what must be done next. You have heard the story just as I have. You must put aside any doubts or scepticism and accept it for what it is. In truth we have nothing else.

“Miss Jones is due back into the country the day before the countdown ends. Our counterparts in France have their orders and will get her safely onto British soil. Someone, however, must be there to meet her. There is a Professor Docherty she must meet up with. Nuclear Plant 6. I need not tell you what will happen after that.

“You must contact Professor Docherty and clear the way for Miss Jones. Billions of lives rely on this. I know you can do it.”

The video flicked out.

“Who was that?” he asked as his companion – Locksley? – stared blankly at the clear screen.

For a long time there was no answer, and then the words came surprisingly softly.

“That was my brother.”

*

It turned out to be Locksley’s family home. Somehow he was not surprised.

“So, is Locksley your real name?”

The man had fixed him with such a look that he regretted asking the question.

“Ah, no, of course not,” he continued correcting himself, “that would be ridiculous. They’re all code names. Sherwood Burns, that was you telling them you were leaving the country. Locksley, as in Robin Hood, is you returning from abroad.”

The other man gave him a small smile.

“So what should I call you?” Because he had to call him something.

The other man considered it for a moment before glancing briefly back at the blank computer screen.

“Locksley will do,” he said. “It’s close enough.”

*-*-*

**Day 331**

*-*-*

Locksley spent the day doing something with the equipment. John didn’t ask. It was only on the fifth time of hearing the video…

“…the fact you are watching this means I was unable to meet you after South Africa. I trust your mission was successful and you managed to get the data to Miss Jones. I have never doubted your abilities….”

…that he noticed something odd.

“There’s no Archangel Network symbol.”

Everything had the Archangel Network symbol.

Pausing the recording, Locksley looked at him with the expression of one who could not believe they had heard what they just had.

“No,” he said shortly. “Archangel is the Master’s method of control. That’s how he managed to take over. A low-level psychic field transmitted through the mobile network from fifteen satellites around the planet, all hypnotising people into think he’s Harold Saxon, fooling them, making them vote for him.”

“But not you,” he said slowly.

The other man smiled slightly. “Politics bores me. My brother on the other hand…” his voice trailed off. “Archangel is ninety-nine, maybe ninety-eight percent effective. My bother saw the danger, made sure that not everything had Archangel put on it. Then he fled.”

“The Master found out?”

There was a curt nod. “My brother was a threat. So he faked his death and left.”

“Is that where you went?” he asked curiously. “You know, after Harwich?”

“Eventually,” he said, then it was as he closed up and the conversation was over.

*-*-*

**Day 334**

*-*-*

They left when it was clear they were out of food and clean water. They took only the basics and then started the long trek towards their first destination. It was slow going as they had to avoid wild animals, scavengers and the Toclafane.

As they crossed yet another stream, the rain beating down on their heads in a steady shower, John couldn’t help but wonder if it was more like “Lord of the Rings”, or “Platoon”. When he mentioned it to Locksley the other man simply looked blank.

*-*-*

**Day 335**

*-*-*

He shot another scavenger. It was in self defence but he killed the man none the less.

Locksley didn’t say anything about it.

It was better that way.

*-*-*

**Day 338**

*-*-*

They made it to the Nuclear Plant 6 relatively unscathed only to find that Professor Docherty was no longer there.

“Where is she then?” John asked slumping against a wall in exhaustion.

“Nuclear Plant 7,” Locksley said also showing signs of weariness and fatigue.

“Right,” John said licking his lips only to find his mouth was too dry to make too much of a difference. “And where’s that?” he asked.

“Kent,” Locksley said.

“Right,” John said again. “And it has to be him, doesn’t it?”

“Her,” Locksley said.

“Sorry?”

“Professor Docherty is a woman.”

“Oh,” John said. “Right.” He cleared his throat. “But it does have to be her, right?” he said.

“Yes,” Locksley said.

They were silent for a long moment.

“Okay then,” John said pulling himself together. “We best get moving then.”

*-*-*

**Day 343**

*-*-*

They spent the night in an old barn, huddling together for warmth. Exhausted but not necessarily sleepy they talked softly in the dark, telling each other things they would never dare say in the day time.

John told Locksley how he had found out his sister had died in the first wave, how he had been sent to treat people at labour camp after labour camp, how he had been forced to chose who was going to be treated and who was going to die because there simply were not enough supplies to go around.

In turn Locksley told him about the rest of the world, how he had managed to get to Holland against the odds, how he had seen the Shipyards building rocket after rocket, how he had gone to South Africa hunting for information on the Toclafane after one had been brought down by a lightening strike.

Neither offered words of comfort to the other, it wasn’t necessary.

*-*-*

**Day 351**

*-*-*

They finally found the professor. They were certainly more pleased to see her than she was to see them.

“Fourteen days,” she said. “You’re giving me fourteen days to pull that sort of equipment together to be able to do whatever it is this Martha Jones needs me to be able to do?”

“Yes,” Locksley said his tone firm.

“You ask for miracles,” Docherty said.

Locksley smiled.

*-*-*

**Day 354**

*-*-*

They scavenged for the necessary equipment. It wasn’t easy but by the end of the third day they have provided the professor with everything that she might need and more.

“Is this going to work?” John asked rubbing his hand across his face.

“It has to,” Locksley replied.

*-*-*  
 **  
Day 359**

*-*-*

It was only a matter of time before their luck ran out and it finally ran out in spectacular fashion.

They had made it to Kent, were only a matter of miles from the coast. They had thought they were safe and maybe that was why they had stayed that one extra night.

They had been discovered of course.

John’s head swam as he forced his legs to keep moving. The stitch in his side was growing and he knew he wasn’t getting enough oxygen but he forced himself onwards trying to keep up with the longer legs of his companion. It was ironic, he thought, that their mission, their quest was being ended by the very people they were trying to save.

The overseers and collaborators were the worst of the lot and that was who they were being hunted by. At least the scavengers only hunted for food and survival, and the Toclafane hunted for fun, but the collaborators hunted their own for recognition and reward. Locksley and him were part of the resistance and as such they were to be hunted and killed.

The first shot caught Locksley in the arm, the second in the stomach.

He stumbled with a gasp, hand clenching at he second wound as he tumbled to the ground. John didn’t need to be a doctor to know that it was fatal.

“You have to make it,” Locksley said, his free hand gasping at John’s shirt. “Find Martha Jones. Save the world, John.”

Then his friend’s eyes slid shut and he was gone.

Over two billion people on the planet had been killed so far, but no death had affected as greatly as this one, not even the news of his sister.

Shaking he lowered his friend’s body to the ground. He wanted to sit and cry, to mourn the brilliant man he had known all too briefly, but he couldn’t, he had to keep moving.

Rising to his feet he pressed on. He heard the shouts from a distance but forced his legs to keep moving, to keep pumping. He barely felt it when the bullet ripped through his right thigh.

*-*-*  
 **  
Day 360**

*-*-*

He got away but he had no idea how. His leg throbbed something chronic, but he forced himself onwards, back to the coast, back to where he needed to be.

Fortunately it had only been a flesh wound and he had been able to bandage it up. It needed stitches really, but he simply didn’t have the equipment. He made a crutch out of a tree branch and forced himself onwards.

*-*-*

**Day 362**

*-*-*

It was nearly over.

His leg was infected and without antibiotics he was going to die from septicaemia. It was odd that it did not bother him nearly as much as he thought it would. Dying that was. He could cope with dying.

No, the problem was that he had a promise to keep. Someone had to pick up Martha Jones. The whole world depended upon it.

*-*-*

**Day 363**

*-*-*

It was an accident. Or it was fate, or providence, or something similar.

“Watson? John Watson, that you?”

His eyes blurred as he watched a figure climb out of the jeep. Tall, unshaven and bearing the familiar ID of the medical profession.

“Milligan,” he gasped, sinking to the ground as his leg finally gave out on him.

The other man swore and was beside him in a flash.

“Bloody hell, we all thought you were dead.”

He managed a small, slight smile.

“Not quite,” he said. “Soon.”

He knew the other doctor could see what state his leg was in, read the situation in his symptoms; the flush of fever across his face, the swelling of his hands, the shortness of breath. It wouldn’t be long now.

“What happened?” Milligan asked.

He just smiled slightly, his eyes closing against his will.

“Resistance,” he said. “Need your help.” Then he explained, as best he could. He told Milligan about Martha Jones, how she was going to save the world. He wasn’t surprised to hear that Milligan had already heard about her.

“They say she sailed the Atlantic,” Milligan said, “walked across America. That she was the only person to get out of Japan alive.”

“She was,” John said his mind drifting back to what Locksley had said. “And she’s the only person who can stop him, stop the Master, but she needs your help.”

Milligan listened to the rest in silence, his eyes widening at the needed moments, his silence saying as much as any words could do. Then as John’s voice trailed off, Milligan spoke, his voice firm.

“What do I do?”

*-*-*

**Day 364**

*-*-*

Milligan went in his stead.

He handed over his gun just in case, for what good it would bring the other doctor, and then he lay back and waited… waited to sleep, to die, for this whole world to be over.

*-*-*  
  
 **Day 365**  
  
*-*-*

He died in the early hours of the morning.

*

Seventy-three minutes later a small boat landed on the dark of a British beach and a former paediatric doctor greeted a young lady dressed all in black.

“So what’s your name, then?” she asked. She had not been told who was to meet her on the other side, only that someone would.

“Tom Milligan,” the man said. “No need to ask who you are, the famous Martha Jones. How long since you were last in Britain?”

“365 days. It’s been a long year.”

*-*-*

**Day 366**

*-*-*

The countdown over, the moment of truth was finally there and as the clock finally reached zero one brave young lady looked up from her knees to her would be executioner and told him what she had really been doing all that time.

“I told them,” she said, “that if everyone thinks of one word, at one specific time… right across the world. One word, just one thought, at one moment… but with fifteen satellites… a telepathic field binding the whole human race together, with all of them, every single person on Earth, thinking the same thing at the same time. And that word… is Doctor.”

The counter reached zero and the Time Lord known only as the Doctor rose into the air and in that instance everything changed. Within minutes the Master was defeated, the Paradox Machine was broken and time reversed back a year, undoing everything that had been done.

The year that had been ceased to be.

 

*-*-*

**Day 1  
(again)**

*-*-*

Harold Saxon was insane.

John watched in growing horror as the large sphere like Toclafane assassinated the American President.

Less than ten minutes later the Toclafane were gone and Harold Saxon was dead, shot in the stomach by his wife.

It was over.

*-*-*  
 **  
Epilogue**

*-*-*

The Authorities never really said what had happened on the Valiant. There were massive repercussions of course. The newly elected Prime Minister assassinating the American President on world wide television was always going to cause a diplomatic incident far greater than most ever seen. The fact that the man known as Harold Saxon had been clearly insane – news now came out that the election had been rigged, that the cabinet members who had been in ‘seclusion’ were in fact also dead murdered by Saxon, that his entire history had been a fabrication – and was now dead himself did not stop the public outcry. Justice was demanded.

For most though, life went back to normal, to the way it always had.

For a small percentage though choices were made, actions occurred and things were said that they had little reason for. If any of them had remembered the events they might have theorised that they were experiencing slight residual memories of a year that had never officially happened.

After weeks of sleepless nights, of dreams broken by the sounds of screaming and the flashes of spinning metal, Harriet Watson broke open a bottle of alcohol and started to drink.

Driven by an unexplainable and rather confusing urge, a pair of brothers sat down in the same room together and found themselves being civil if not somewhat pleasant and agreeable. It was the first time they had seen each other since the elder had returned to the country, his self imposed exile having ended with the life of Harold Saxon. His own life now no longer in danger from a madman who had marked him for assassination, he had returned because Britain needed him, even if the people of Britain would never know that. His first act had been to call upon his younger brother, if only to check that he was indeed alive and well. They talked as they had not talked in many years, without competition or resentment. It did not last long, but it was enough, each secretly glad to see the other, each relieved without really knowing why.

While in another part of London, a hospital doctor found that something was missing in his life, although he wasn’t sure what. Three months after the death of the Master he signed his name on the dotted line and found himself a member of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. They put a gun in his hand and he could not help but think that things were finally starting to feel right.

A year later they sent him to Afghanistan. There he saw poverty, malnutrition and desperation. It all seemed achingly familiar somehow.

The bullet wound finally ended his military career, and invalided home he accepted the medical discharge and the counselling that came with it. Post traumatic stress he could accept, an unsteady hand and an aching shoulder he could understand, but why the wound chose to manifest itself in his right leg he did not know. Psychosomatic he was told. Funny, he thought, it certainly felt real enough to him.

There was still something missing though, something he couldn’t put his finger on. There were days when he was sure the answer was just within reach, but then it would slip away again and he would find himself at a loss.

He stayed in London because it was vibrant and alive, two things he needed desperately. So when he bumped into Mike and heard about the man looking for a flat mate he had no reason to decline.

The man was tall and achingly familiar, with his dark curly hair and his piercing blue eyes. It was like he had seen him before, in a dream perhaps. He was also frustratingly elusive, throwing out information without actually offering anything about himself. In fact it got until the man was basically walking out of the door before John managed to get any sort of concrete information out of him at all.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes,” the stranger had said followed quickly by an address. But it was the name that stuck with him the most. Sherlock Holmes. For some reason that he could not figure out that made perfect sense.

He was home.

*-*-*  
 **  
The End** ****

****

 

****

 

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End file.
